The Secret Room

The Secret Room

Once the day is dead

And the night is black

When everyone sleeps,

I creep out of my bed

And open that room

To which no one else

Is allowed to know of.

 

The room is the opposite

Of what I am like under

The glaring light of the day.

In the cool comforting darkness,

I enter the mess which lets me

Breathe, without feeling a hand

Choking my throat continuously.

 

The room is messy, but nothing

Is dusty, everything being fondled

Every night by trembling fingers. 

Sometimes, the things in the room

Comfort me, like a long hug

Sometimes they cut me,

Like sharp, merciless tongues.

 

I know I have to clean this room

One day, and get rid of what people

Call, “junk. But not tonight, tonight

I want to feel them one last time,

And remember the things I can never

Touch, except in this secret room.

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8 thoughts on “The Secret Room

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